Thursday, 1 December 2011

Girl-About-Town

I am facing a Night Out. I've had two of these in the year since we moved to London: Dolly Parton live with a visiting vicar and chicken korma with the ladies from the choir. But this night out is different. It's in the city centre with a glamorous ex-colleague, whom I've not seen in the decade since we bore babies. And I am worried.

I am worried about the parting from my friendly tartan sofa rug and my Primark slouchers. I am worried that every outdoor garment I possess is made of tweed or pilled wool. I am worried that I will not manage opinions on the Greek bail-out and the obesity crisis with an intellect shrunken by Balamory. And I am worried that the Vicar will forget to put the bins out. Above all, though, I am worried that I am so worried.

I pull on my edgiest cable-knit and I buff up my spectacles and I am a scuttling woolly figure reflected in shop windows. But when I breathe the thick brothy air of the Underground I am energised. I stride to the ticket barriers feeling a girl-about-town and tap my ticket into the slot with the flair of a seasoned commuter.

Except that I've forgotten that you no longer tap tickets in slots; you swipe Oyster cards on pads. And I've forgotten that the blue of my Oyster card is the same blue as my debit card. And I've fed the debit card into the slot and it hasn't come out again.

I seek out a ticket inspector. I am relieved that he is young and good-looking and that I am a blonde girl-about-town. 'What were you thinking?' he marvels, whipping a screw driver from his trousers. 'It must have been something very exciting!' I say, and I discover that I am simpering.

He thrusts opens the slot and prises my card from clenched metal jaws and I stand there trying to look ornamental. And then I glimpse my woolly reflection in a glass barrier. I realise that it's not gallantry he's directing at a beguiling young blonde; it's pity for a befuddled middle-aged matron. And I stride onwards, trying to walk tall, but I don't feel a girl-about town any more: I want my tartan rug.

19 comments:

I would much rather have a tartan rug than a night on the town - in fact, perish the thought! I haven't done a night out for years and I don't think I ever will again. Evenings for me are at home; Amy and the Farmer and a nice warm house.

The Oyster card incident made me giggle.I was back in London in the summer after years away abroad, baffled by the serve yourself ticket machines, so queuing at the hole in the wall ticket sales office.There a young man explained very patiently about all my options for getting to Kensal Rise and sold me an Oyster Card..which I then attempted to ram into the slot on the gates....only be rescued by another kind young man who said'No,Gran...you swipe it...'

A post many will empathise with and please can I have your tartan rug by the way. Signed of course.When I went out recently, my husband steered me round clearly believing I was not safe to be let out. I too felt young again.I hope the night proved lots of fun and hey, us older women know more tricks non?

I rarely go out at night - and it's not because I prefer to glue myself to the laptop but rather that I get rather depressed if I go into a pub only to find myself surrounded by boob tube wearing,taut-tummied 17 year olds!

Many thanks to Mammasaurus for leading me astray...I mean to your blog. How wonderful to find a group of like minded, recycled teenagers. The tartan rug sounds nice, but I'm a Primark fleece blanket gal.

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About Me

As a vicar's wife I bake cakes and memorise the parish ailments. As a mother I occasionally feed and occasionally counsel an 11-year-old son and an 13-year-old daughter. As a journalist I am a part-time staff feature writer on The Guardian and a freelancer. Tartan sofa rugs, herbaceous perennials and a nightly lager hold it all together.